To Light a Candle
by namelessamelie
Summary: "Love is not consolation. It is light." - Friedrich Nietzsche. / When Hermione and Draco return to Hogwarts for their eighth year, they both find themselves without something that has always defined them. For Hermione, it is her friends. For Draco, it is his wand. / COMPLETE!


**A/N: This story was originally written for the 2011 DHr Advent, for the prompt "candlelight." There was a word limit (5K), which I surpassed—oops—but had there been no word limit at all, this fic would most certainly have turned out much longer!**

* * *

"_It is better to light a candle than to curse the darkness." -Eleanor Roosevelt_

* * *

The Ministry of Magic very nearly did not allow Draco Malfoy to return to Hogwarts to finish his degree. He was, after all, a proven Death Eater. It took his mother's pleading, Harry Potter's testimony, and what effectively amounted to bribery in order to prevent him from being incarcerated along with his father.

But when the summer after the war ended and the students who ought to have graduated in spring found themselves back at Hogwarts to repeat their final year, Draco Malfoy was among them.

Harry and Ron were not.

Hermione had not felt so alone at Hogwarts since her first year, in the lonely days before she had made her first friends fighting off a renegade troll in the girls' bathroom.

There was Ginny, of course, and Neville; but still, it was not the same. She hadn't expected the transition back to school after the war to be smooth, but she still found herself unprepared for just how _different_ everything was. Nothing about Hogwarts felt cheerful anymore: at every turn, there were ghostly reminders of the past, of the final battle and its casualties. Professor McGonagall made an excellent Headmistress, but it caught Hermione off guard every time she glanced up from her seat in the Great Hall and did not see Dumbledore sitting at the center of the High Table, smiling omnisciently out over the crowd from behind his spectacles. Every moment she spent in the castle was tainted by her memories of what had come before.

Without Harry and Ron by her side, she found herself drifting into melancholy.

It didn't help that people were constantly talking to her about the war—asking her about her adventures, praising her for her bravery, bemoaning the tragedies of bloodshed. She was a famous war hero now, and she could hear the whispers about her in the hallways wherever she went. It was maddening. Hermione was still frightened by the things she'd witnessed during the war, still afraid of the dark in a way that she hadn't been since childhood; and the last thing she wanted was to be reminded of it all. Ginny advised her not to pay attention, but she couldn't seem to block it out. There was nowhere to go to escape it: the loss, the cruelty, the unwanted knowledge of what evil looked like.

As much as she tried to fight it, she could not help resenting Ron and Harry for resting on their laurels and using their new hero status to waltz into the prestigious Auror Office without even bothering to finish their degrees. They'd been absolutely bewildered by her insistence on going back to Hogwarts for a seventh year, as though she were bent on wasting her own time: they saw school as nothing more than a means to an end, ignoring the fact that they could never be successful Aurors without the advanced knowledge they were meant to acquire in their final year of education.

They had left her alone in a haunted house.

So she threw herself into her studies, attempting to distract herself from her own loneliness; but as much as she loved books and learning, even classes were little comfort to her. She found it hard to concentrate on her homework when she could still hear the shrieking voices of those who had fallen in battle, when everything around her took on an unwarranted morbidity that she could not seem to shake. Whispering students sounded suspiciously like plotting Death Eaters. The hulking shadow of a suit of armor became a glimpse of Fenrir Greyback. While others had been eager to return to the comforting lull of peacetime, Hermione refused to let her guard down. She found it difficult to believe that the war was really over—that after the loss of their lord, the Death Eaters would simply put down their arms and give up—and she had learned, the hard way, the importance of staying alert.

She noticed Malfoy spending more time in the library than he ever had before the war—she'd frequented the place enough to know the usual suspects, and he had most certainly not been one of them—and she couldn't help wondering what he was up to.

Having little else to do, she began to watch him. He, too, seemed to be keeping mostly to himself since his return to school; and, in a marked change from his former behavior, he now swept quietly through the corridors alone, appearing not to want to attract attention. He did not rejoin the Quidditch team, and he no longer strutted around the castle taunting the younger students with his friends. When his fellow Slytherins fooled around in the Great Hall, conjuring fireflies and fairy lights and tiny fireworks for amusement, he refused to participate. His trademark smirk had been replaced by a permanent scowl that he wore at all times.

Even more strangely, he seemed overly cautious as he snuck around the castle, glancing warily about as though searching for unseen dangers. Hermione might have been over-compensating for her mistake of disagreeing with Harry's suspicions back in sixth year—but it looked almost as though he were _hiding_ something.

Or perhaps it was simply that Malfoy, like herself, had grown paranoid since the war.

She ignored that possibility and decided to keep an eye on him, just in case he was up to no good. Following Malfoy around gave her a sense of comfort—it reminded her of old times with Harry and how things used to be. It felt familiar.

She was careful to be discreet, though she found it considerably difficult without Harry's invisibility cloak. So she hid behind pillars as she watched him from afar, pretending to be engrossed in books when he passed. She did what she could to hide the fact that she was essentially stalking him, to feign that she merely happened to be a few steps behind when he roamed the hallways at night. For the most part, Malfoy seemed not to notice.

But then one day, when she entered the library a few minutes after him to find him studying quietly at a desk, he spoke to her.

"I'm getting awfully tired of you following me around, Granger," he said, without looking up.

At first, she was too stunned to reply. Then, finding her voice, she managed to get out, "I'm not following you."

"Really."

"You're not the only one who's allowed to use the library," she said defensively. "In fact, I think I have more claim to it than you do. I barely saw you studying here once before this year."

His eyes rose to meet hers, and she flinched slightly. "Why are you watching me?" he asked calmly, and she was taken aback by his bluntness.

"I'm not," she sputtered.

"Then why are you standing there?"

"I—I was about to study," she said uncertainly, and he raised an eyebrow.

To prove her point, she quickly threw her bag onto the table in front of him. He looked at it for a moment before his eyes darted back up to her face in surprise; and he stared at her, aghast, as she took the seat across from him and began pulling out her books.

He said nothing else, however, and returned to his own work when she started scribbling notes, fiercely determined not to look at him. They studied in silence together for several hours, until he finally rose and left without a goodbye.

* * *

Lucius Malfoy had tried to take full blame for Draco's actions during the war—had the spell not been traceable, he probably would have claimed to have had his son under the Imperius the entire time—but unfortunately, Draco's crimes were too serious to go unpunished.

So when the Ministry agreed to let him return to Hogwarts for his final year, it was under one condition: he would not be allowed use of his wand outside of class.

The Headmistress was to keep his wand in a secure location in her office, where the teachers would have access to it; and he would only be permitted to use it during class, under their supervision.

Draco, unsurprisingly, did not take this news well.

"That's absurd!" he shouted. "What's the point of my going back to school if I can't even use magic? How will I practice my spells?"

"You will have to schedule extra sessions with your teachers," Professor McGonagall told him coldly. "Really, Mr. Malfoy, you're lucky to be returning at all. I'd be counting my blessings if I were you."

And with that, Draco's wand was temporarily confiscated by the Ministry, to be returned to him only if he received the unanimous approval of his schoolteachers at the end of the year.

Draco was left with nothing.

He had no wand, no freedom, and no friends. Greg had not been permitted to return to Hogwarts, and things had been sour with Pansy ever since he'd called it quits in sixth year. Now that he was a convicted criminal, most of the other students in school wanted to distance themselves from him—even the Slytherins—and he was especially hurt to find that even Blaise was among them.

The worst part, however, was the loss of his magic. He had been robbed of something that had once been such a firmly established part of him—an extension of his right hand, something he could never have imagined living without—and without it, he was little more than an empty shell.

With access to his wand limited to class time, he began to lose the sureness of his grip. To his alarm, it began to feel almost strange and foreign in his hand. He was no longer used to using it, to holding it between his fingers and feeling its full force surge through him; and his magic suffered for it. Spells were not as artful, as effortless, as they had once been. His charms did not come as easily.

He was barely a wizard.

He managed to hide it from his classmates, but he was not able to hide it from himself. The knowledge was devastating.

For the first time in his life, he turned to studying in order to seek solace from his misery. He had nothing better to do; and now that he was unable to practice spells outside of class, he found that he desperately needed the extra study time in order to just keep up. So, like a caged bird looking out at the skies, he impotently pored over texts, reading about the magic that he could not perform.

In the process, he spent far more time in the library than he could ever have imagined himself doing. He grew accustomed to it: to its clean, bright lights and its comforting silence. He even went so far as to sneak inside after hours, when the library was locked and completely deserted. One restless night, when the common room was full of rowdy first-years playing wizard chess and Theo was entertaining Daphne Greengrass in their bedroom, Draco decided that he needed peace and quiet. He gathered his things and snuck out of the dormitory, heading upstairs to the library where he knew he could study alone and in silence—the way he preferred.

He could no longer rely on his wand for light—the Ministry had seen to that—so he took a candle with him instead. He was just unlocking the doors with a Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes Get-Free-Quick Lockpick when he heard footsteps behind him and froze.

Draco's heart was racing. He knew what his status at the school was. One tiny transgression like this, and he could be thrown out of Hogwarts forever.

But when he finally summoned the courage to whip around and face whoever had caught him in the act, he was surprised to find that it was not a teacher after all.

It was Hermione _bloody_ Granger.

Unbelievable.

"What are you doing?" she asked shrilly, pointing her _Lumos_-lit wand in his direction.

He struggled to keep his voice even as he asked, "Are you going to report me?"

"You didn't answer my question."

"You didn't answer mine."

She stared at him coolly. "My answer depends on yours."

Draco could not help breathing a sigh of relief. "What does it look like I'm doing, Granger? I'm trying to get into the library."

"Why?"

"The same blasted reason that everyone comes here," he said irritably. "To study."

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Since when are you so interested in studying?"

"Since when are _you_ so interested in _me_?"

She flushed before responding angrily, "Ever since _you_ led the Death Eaters into Hogwarts!"

He wanted to kill her. If he'd had his wand, he would have hexed her into oblivion. But he was unarmed, and she had just caught him breaking Hogwarts rules, and she clearly had the upper hand in this particular situation. So he swallowed his pride and awkwardly cleared his throat before pulling open the door to the library.

He gestured towards the darkness and asked brusquely, "Are you coming or not?"

There was a moment of tense silence.

Then, in a strangely deflated voice, she said, "I don't have my books."

It was not the answer he had been expecting, but he was too shaken to care. He nodded and escaped inside, praying to every deity he could invoke that she would not turn him in.

She didn't, but Draco learned his lesson nonetheless. The experience taught him that candlelight drew attention to him—Granger had made that painfully clear—and it just so happened that he had in his possession the perfect solution: The Hand of Glory.

He quickly found, however, that it took a lot to deter her.

He was using the Hand to privately light his way to the Hogwarts kitchens when he suddenly noticed Granger's telltale footsteps behind him and groaned. The corridors were dimly lit, but he knew that she would be able to see and recognize him from behind—he had his distinctive hair to thank for that. So he hurriedly snuck into a dark stairwell nearby, hoping that the lack of light would discourage her from following.

Again, he was wrong.

Granger approached the base of the stairs and peered cautiously up into the darkened space for a moment. Then, to his disbelief, she stepped bravely into the shadows, feeling her way up the steps with one hand pressed against the stone wall beside her. The candlelight from the Hand flickered across her face, illuminating her furrowed eyebrows and tightly pursed lips with a warm glow that she could feel, but not see. Draco watched as she squinted into the darkness before pulling out her wand and whispering, "_Lumos._"

She gasped and jumped back when the new light revealed him directly in her path, watching her calmly as he held a lit candle in a shriveled hand. Her eyes darted to the gnarled Dark object and shivered with disgust.

"Malfoy! You scared me."

"What is it that you want from me?" he asked, eyeing her warily.

She ignored his question. "Why are you sneaking around with that _awful_ thing?"

"Maybe it's because I don't want you following me everywhere."

"I didn't even know it was you!" she exclaimed, but her averted gaze gave away her lie. "What are you doing out at this time of night anyway?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

"Yes, but _you're_ no longer a prefect," she said crisply. "So I wouldn't have to answer."

He gritted his teeth at the reminder of all he had lost. "Haven't you figured it out by now, Granger? I keep late hours, and I prefer to study in silence."

"This isn't the way to the library."

"_Merlin_, you're nosy. If you must know, I was on my way to the _kitchens_. There? Satisfied? I swear, I need a restraining order or something."

She looked at him skeptically for a moment, then lowered her gaze and replied, "That's where I was headed, too."

Encouraged by this slightest of retreats, he went on challengingly, "Are we finished? Or do you have more questions you'd like to interrogate me with? Maybe you'd like to accompany me to the kitchens and watch me eat, so that you can verify for yourself—"

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, and his lips snapped shut in surprise.

Granger sighed and ran a hand through her impossibly wild hair. "Listen, I—I've been having a really hard year," she said, sounding rather defeated. "And maybe I've been taking some of that out on you. You've been perfectly polite about all this, and—and—I'm sorry. I really am."

Draco was stunned into silence. An apology was more than he'd hoped for.

"Will you forgive me?" she asked, and he simply stared at her.

"I'm sorry," she said again, lamely, before turning and fleeing towards the light.

* * *

When they learned to brew their own Pepperup potion in class, Hermione was extremely glad to have Slughorn as her teacher. Snape had been incredibly secretive about his dungeon classroom, and he would never have trusted his students enough to allow them unsupervised access.

Slughorn, on the other hand, was far less strict. He locked the supply cabinet, but aside from that, he was happy to let students come and go as they pleased; and when Hermione asked if she could stop by over the weekend to check on her potion, he seemed absolutely delighted. The potion required a week to brew, and though it was not necessary to check on it more than once every several days, any potioneer worth his salt knew that it helped to stir it vigorously at least once a day.

When she entered the empty classroom on Saturday, she was surprised to find that she was not alone.

Malfoy was standing over his cauldron, churning the contents vigorously with some sort of long wooden stick. He glanced over his shoulder to look at her when he heard her enter, then quickly turned back to his potion when he saw who it was.

"I didn't know you'd be here," she blurted out defensively.

"You're not the only one who can brew a potion properly, Granger."

"Of course, I—that's not what I was saying at all. I just meant—I wasn't—"

"Following me?" he supplied helpfully, still staring intently down into his cauldron.

She sheepishly made her way over to her own potion and began to stir. "You know," she said, in a pitiful attempt at being friendly, "they say that if you switch off between stirring clockwise and counter-clockwise, it really improves the—"

"For Merlin's sake, Granger," he snapped, "don't you think I know that already? I'm the best Potions student in our year, no matter what _Slughorn_ thinks, and—"

As he whirled around to face her, his elbow knocked a vial of dragon blood off the table beside him; and it fell to the floor and splintered into pieces with a resounding crash.

"_Shit_," hissed Malfoy, dropping to the floor and hastily grabbing a nearby rag to soak up the blood.

Hermione stared at him for a few seconds, watching in disbelief as he began to collect the largest shards of glass.

Then she took out her wand, walked over to him, and said, "_Reparo._"

The vial instantly flew back into one piece. Next, she pointed her wand at the spilled blood; but he put up a hand and snarled, "Leave it."

She ignored him, siphoning up the blood with a quick _Tergeo_ before turning to look at him.

Malfoy remained crouched on the floor, seemingly unable to meet her gaze.

"What happened to your wand?" she asked quietly, and he stiffened.

"That's none of your business," he replied, but she was relentless.

"I noticed that you don't use it much anymore," she said softly. "You always carry a candle instead of just using your wand, and—I saw you using a toy lockpick instead of _Alohomora._"

"What's your point?" he growled.

"Did something happen to it?" she asked, as gently as she could.

He suddenly rose to his feet and glared viciously at her. "Yes," he said furiously, "that's right, Granger. I _don't_ have my wand anymore, because the Ministry took it away. And no, I'm not allowed to use it, except for during class; and yes, that makes me about as worthless as a squib! Are you _happy_ now?"

He was practically shouting at her, but there was a hint of something almost like relief in his tone; and Hermione wondered if he might secretly have longed to admit this truth to someone. She suddenly realized how terribly lonely he was. The nights she'd seen him spend wandering the castle by himself, studying alone in the dim glow of his candle, suddenly took on another light. Chalking his outburst up to wounded pride, she suddenly felt sorry for him: she could plainly see the shame, the humiliation, the _anguish_ written in his eyes; and she tried to imagine what it would feel like to not have use of her wand. She could hardly picture it. It would be as though an entire part of her were missing, she thought—as though one of her limbs had been cut off.

"You can use mine, if you want," she said suddenly.

His focus had returned to the cauldron in front of him, and his head jerked up as he turned to stare at her.

"What?" he asked, so lowly she could scarcely hear him.

Hermione repeated herself weakly.

"You'd let me use your wand?" he asked in disbelief, his eyes piercing as they examined her. "And leave yourself unarmed against me? Why?"

"To practice your spells," she started to explain, but he cut her off.

"No, I mean—_why?_ Why would you trust me with your wand? That's downright idiotic."

"So is insulting the one person who's offering to help you."

He looked at her for a moment, inspecting her with an unreadable expression, before saying, "All right."

* * *

It was mutually understood that both would keep their time together a secret, though neither knew exactly why. It simply felt natural. So Hermione told no one—not even Ginny, who she worried might judge her for consorting with the enemy—about the nights she spent studying with Malfoy. They met in empty classrooms and, on occasion, the library; and together they went over assignments and spells alike.

He grew accustomed to her wand. It wasn't the same as using his own wand, of course, but being able to practice with any wand at all outside of class made an undeniable difference. And when he needed something mended (like the broken strap of his schoolbag) or cleaned (like the cloak on which Theo had clumsily spilled pumpkin juice), he now had a way to take care of those things himself, without waiting for their next trip to Hogsmeade.

They never talked about anything other than schoolwork, and they were not _friendly_, exactly—but they soon found that, with no one watching, it was rather easy to pretend that they did not despise one another.

One night, while she was working on a Charms essay, and Malfoy was practicing Transfiguring and Untransfiguring various objects around a classroom, they suddenly heard sounds coming from the corridor outside.

"Over here, Ernie!" someone shouted, and Hermione recognized at once the irritating and unmistakable voice of Zacharias Smith.

Malfoy leapt back and away from the door.

"Honestly," they could hear Justin Finch-Fletchley saying, his voice growing louder and louder with every word, "I don't see what all the fuss is about. We could have talked about this in the common room."

The footsteps were getting closer. Malfoy turned to look at her with wide eyes; and Hermione quickly rose from her desk and yanked her wand out of his hand before turning off the lights with a flick of her wrist. They waited in the darkness, standing perfectly still, until the voices passed down the hallway and were no longer audible.

Even when the Hufflepuffs had clearly gone, they both remained motionless, keeping silent as they considered what had nearly just happened—and what exactly they were doing that so badly needed hiding.

"Perhaps we should go up to the Astronomy Tower instead," she suggested in a whisper, and Malfoy did not respond at first.

Then he said, his voice unusually cold, "I think I'm done practicing for tonight."

She suddenly realized her mistake.

"Or we could stay here," she added quickly. "I could cast a Disillusionment Charm, or—"

"That's all right," he interrupted. "I'm rather tired."

He tried to move past her and towards the door—but in the pitch-black room, he could not see where he was going; and so he bumped straight into her just as she was attempting to light her wand, knocking it out of her hand. The wand tumbled and clattered onto the floor, undetectable in the dark.

"_Malfoy_," she cried, deeply annoyed, "what the _hell_ did you do that for?"

"I didn't do it on purpose!" he exclaimed.

Groaning, she dropped to the floor and attempted to locate her wand; and she could hear Malfoy do the same beside her. They grasped blindly around the floor trying to find it, until she reached out with fumbling fingers and accidentally grabbed Malfoy's hand instead.

She withdrew it as quickly as if she'd been burned.

For a moment, they were both completely still.

"I'm sorry," she said breathlessly, "I didn't mean to—"

But then, before she knew what was happening, he had suddenly moved forward and claimed her hand again; and then his lips were on hers, and his other hand was unexpectedly gripping the base of her neck as he pulled her closer.

She was bewildered as to what he was doing and what his intentions were; but the room was so dark that they could barely see each other, and explanations somehow seemed pointless. What did it matter what they were doing, when there was no one watching—not even themselves? So she hesitantly placed her hands at his shoulders and clutched at him—which seemed to encourage him, because he wrapped a hand around her waist and pressed himself more fully against her in response.

The Hufflepuffs returned, chattering amongst themselves as they passed by the classroom on their way back to their dormitory—and still they did not separate. Concealed by the darkness, they remained entwined; his body flush against hers, his hand sliding down from her waist to the curve of her backside; and later, Hermione could not remember a single word Zacharias or Justin or Ernie had spoken.

* * *

It was hard to keep a secret from Ginny, but it was another thing entirely to keep one from Harry.

Harry visited one weekend—mostly to see Ginny, but also to see Hermione—and they spent an afternoon strolling around the school and catching up by themselves. Harry told her everything about his training at the Ministry, and when he asked to hear about Hogwarts, Hermione wished that the contrast between his exciting adventures and her dull existence at school were not quite so stark.

Then, as they descended a moving staircase, she suddenly locked eyes with Malfoy, who had happened to be waiting at the bottom of it.

Harry took one look at the expression on her and Malfoy's faces and knew that something had changed between them.

When the staircase docked, Hermione averted her gaze, and Malfoy passed without a word.

"How's he been doing?" Harry asked, watching her reaction.

She gave a nonchalant shrug. "He's quiet. Keeps to himself."

Harry nodded thoughtfully, but did not press further.

It was only later that weekend, when they were all saying goodbye, that he gave her a conflicted smile and remarked, "You've always had a weakness for lost causes."

"What does that mean?" asked Ginny, glancing back and forth between the two of them.

Hermione said nothing, and Harry shrugged. "It's nothing, Gin."

* * *

They met nearly every night, and they no longer talked only about schoolwork. They sought privacy wherever they could—with the exception of the Astronomy Tower, which Hermione had been careful never to mention again.

Her disappearances did not go unnoticed. One night, Lavender and Parvati confronted her about where she snuck off to in the evenings, accusing her playfully of having a secret boyfriend.

"Absolutely not," Hermione insisted, but they were undiscouraged.

"Then why are you blushing?" asked Lavender, and Parvati let out a loud giggle.

"Oh, come on," said Parvati. "You can tell us!"

"Look, I really don't have a boyfriend—"

"But you _are_ meeting a boy, aren't you?"

She hesitated for the slightest of moments, and Lavender's eyes widened into circles. "You _are_ meeting a boy!" she squealed. "Tell us everything! I want to hear _all_ the details!"

It took Hermione nearly an hour to convince her roommates to drop the subject and let her go to bed.

But as she lay under the covers, she could not stop thinking about whether what she and Draco were doing could, in fact, be considered a relationship.

Were they even friends?

* * *

His fingers slipped under the hem of her skirt, sliding over her thigh and inching closer and closer to the warmth between her legs. Hermione clasped one hand over his in a half-hearted attempt to stop him, but she could not find the strength to push him away.

"Please," he whispered breathlessly into her ear. The tip of his tongue followed the path his word had taken, swirling mercilessly as she fought back a moan.

She loosened her grip on his hand, and he cupped her gently, pressing one finger against the dampness of her knickers.

"I have to go back to the dormitory," she said softly.

He ignored her, brushing his thumb across the fabric in a way that made her jump. "It's getting late," she went on, her tone shamefully reluctant. "I should go."

"Let's stay here just a little while longer," he pleaded, and there was something different about his voice—a nervousness she had never heard before.

When she hesitated, he quickly leaned in and claimed her lips again. His mouth slid along her jaw and down her neck, fastening over her pulse point; and her eyelids fluttered shut involuntarily. "Please," he said again, his breath hot and unnerving as it tickled her skin, and the battle was lost.

She nodded her acquiescence, and he scrambled off the table to get her wand. She watched as he conjured a bed in the middle of the classroom, and in spite of herself, she smiled at him.

"Your conjuring has gotten so much better," she said, beaming.

But when he turned to look at her, his expression was unexpectedly grim.

"Come on," he said quietly, ignoring her praise. He took her by the hand and led her to the bed, then lifted her wand into the air with a strangely serious look on his face.

"_Nox_," he whispered, and all light was extinguished.

* * *

When Hermione awoke, it was to an empty room.

Even the bed had been Vanished, and she was lying on nothing more than a thick winter cloak that she assumed belonged to Draco.

She panicked for a moment—_what time was it?_—but was relieved to find that it was not yet morning. She fixed her hair and clothes and quickly fled to the Gryffindor dormitory, cursing herself for having fallen asleep and cursing Draco for having left her alone.

She managed not to wake her roommates as she snuck quietly back into her room. But as she approached her bed, she noticed something lying on it: her wand.

Hermione stared.

_How was this possible?_

Her hand flew to the pocket of her robes, but found nothing. She had not even noticed that it was missing.

She reached out and picked it up, spinning it carefully between her fingers as she examined the wood. It was indisputably hers, all right.

After several minutes of agonizing over how Draco had gotten into her room—and _why_—, she decided to sleep on it.

* * *

In the morning, she discovered that Draco had stolen his wand back from Professor McGonagall's office and run away from school.

The teachers were bewildered as to how this had happened. His wand had been carefully locked away, they said, and it would have been difficult to break into its hiding place even _with_ a wand—without a wand, it would have been impossible.

They began testing the Slytherin students' wands with _Prior Incantato_, attempting to discover who had lent Malfoy their wand so he could escape. It was an imperfect system, but it was the easiest to pursue.

They did not investigate all the students. They did not, for example, suspect Hermione.

Hermione had never felt more used in her life.

She had been stupid—so terribly, terribly stupid—to think that he had _changed_ somehow. To think that any of it had meant anything. She had offered her wand up to him on a silver platter; he would have been a fool not to take it.

The worst part—the absolute worst part of it all—was that deep down inside, she still worried for him. In spite of how he had treated her, she could not help fearing that he might be caught.

* * *

She graduated; and she joined Ron and Harry at the Ministry, although not as an Auror. She worked long hours and, for months, did not go on a single date. Ron asked her out once, but she told him that while she loved him and always would, she knew now that she did not love him as more than a friend.

Harry commented idly one day at lunch that, nearly a year after his disappearance, Malfoy had reappeared in London.

His tone was light and casual, but he looked directly at Hermione as he said it.

"Isn't he a fugitive?" asked Ron, and Harry shook his head, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Not really, no. The Ministry's not going to pursue him. They might have last year, but now? War criminals aren't the hot issue of the moment. They've got more topical fish to fry."

Hermione cleared her throat. "Could you pass the mustard?" she asked, officially ending that particular line of conversation.

* * *

It was mid-December when she came home after a long day of Christmas shopping and found him waiting for her outside her door.

At first, she could not believe her eyes. But then he stepped hesitantly in her direction, and she could faintly smell that scent with which she had once been so familiar—and she knew that she was not hallucinating.

"Hi," he said weakly.

She stared at him for a moment before turning away to look for her key.

"I didn't know where you lived," he went on hurriedly. "I couldn't come see you at the Ministry, because—well—I'm technically an outlaw. But I tried to find out where you lived as fast as I could, and—and—" He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, brightly wrapped parcel. "I have something for you," he said, holding it out to her.

When she did not so much as glance at it, he began stammering an explanation. "It's a Christmas present: a candle that never goes out. It can burn forever with no risk of setting your house on fire. Thought it might be useful."

"You don't owe me anything," she said coolly, without looking up at him.

"You're wrong, I owe you for everyth—"

"I don't want your thanks for having unintentionally helped you break the law," she interrupted coldly, and he swallowed hard.

"That isn't what I meant," he said, and she bitterly turned to face him.

"I could have expelled from school, you know. I could have been _arrested_. You tricked me into aiding and abetting a criminal."

"I knew you wouldn't be arrested," he argued. "You didn't actually help me; I _stole_ your wand. And you were a model student and a war hero; there was no way—" He broke off upon seeing the anger in her eyes. "I'm sorry. I should have told you."

"It's a little late for that, isn't it?" she asked, trying to appear unaffected.

"It's just—I knew you would try to talk me out of it, and… I was worried that I might let you."

"Didn't you want your degree?"

"My degree?" he repeated, sounding amused. "You and I both know a degree is worthless. Your friends never got theirs."

"Well, my _friends_ aren't convicted Death Eaters."

He paused for a moment before changing the subject. "I'm starting a potions company," he said quietly. "That's how I spent my time in hiding: traveling and researching new ingredients for Healing Potions. I actually got quite a lot done in just—"

"Why are you telling me this?" she asked abruptly.

He opened his mouth uncertainly, closed it, then opened it again. "Can we talk inside?"

She made a scoffing sound and turned away. "Don't act like we're friends."

He looked stung. "It's just—it's cold out."

"I don't know why I ever trusted you," she blurted out suddenly.

To her surprise, he threw up his hands in exasperation and cried, "I don't know either! I still don't understand it! I mean—I'd never done anything to make you want to trust me—or to make you even think that you could. I never did a single thing to indicate that I wasn't a terrible person. You really shouldn't have trusted me for so much as a second! It was _bewildering_, really!"

She let out a disbelieving laugh. "Yes, I know!" she shouted hysterically, infuriated by his unexpected agreement. "Thank you for continuing to remind me what an idiot I am! Thank you for reminding me that I'm a complete _moron_ who, after getting bullied by you throughout my school years, and after seeing all the terrible things you and your family did to me and my friends during the war, somehow still thought that I could _trust_ you! That you weren't a complete piece of shit! Thank you so very much for telling me what I already know!"

With that, she began rummaging frantically through her purse to find her key, so that she could escape inside before the tears came. But he suddenly reached out and stilled her fumbling fingers with his own.

"Why did you?" he asked, his voice quiet and serious as he looked at her intently.

She had no answer. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she remembered what Harry had said to her about lost causes. But before she could form a coherent response, he moved forward and kissed her; and she was ashamed at how swiftly she responded.

Any moment now, she was going to push him away and tell him what a _scoundrel_ he was. Any moment now. But at that _particular_ moment, she was content to let him tear her parcels out of her hands and throw them aside before grabbing her arms and—

Her parcels.

She suddenly remembered that the lamp she had bought Harry and Ginny that day was extremely fragile.

It was enough to jolt her out of her trance; and, abruptly aware of where she was and what she was doing, she pushed him away and gathered her things before fleeing into the safety of her home.

* * *

The gift was still sitting on her doorstep when she left for work the next morning.

Hermione knew that she ought to owl it back. He had scribbled his work address on one side of the wrapping paper, so she even knew where to send it. But she was weak, and after much deliberation, she used her lunch break to go and deliver it to him in person.

Draco had been telling the truth when he'd said that he was quite far along in establishing his company—for the most part, his business already appeared to be functional. The receptionist who greeted her outside his office told her that he was busy all day, but Hermione insisted that she inform him that Hermione Granger wanted to see him.

His receptionist raised her eyebrows at the famous name, but said nothing. After stepping inside his office to check with him, she admitted her immediately.

Draco was standing at his desk and looking extremely nervous as she entered.

"You came," he said, sounding confused, and she held out his present.

"I came here to return this," she said stiffly.

He gave her a thin smile. "Re-gifting already?" he asked, in a failed attempt at a joke. When she did not smile back, his expression grew serious.

"I'm so sorry, Hermione. Listen, I was on the verge of losing my mind last year. I was miserable and I had nothing and I felt like—but that doesn't matter. It doesn't matter, because you changed that; you—you gave me… light. That's why I gave you this," he said, gesturing to the gift in her hand, "because I wanted to return some of it to you."

She looked away, trying to suppress the tingling sensation that was stirring inside her.

"You don't know how much you mean to me," he said, stepping closer. "I—I still don't understand why you trusted me—and I don't think I ever will—but, for the first time in my life, you gave me something that I wanted to live up to. And I don't want to ever break your trust again. Please, Hermione, I—I need you."

She hesitated. But as she looked at him, there was an earnestness in his eyes that she was not sure she had ever seen in Draco Malfoy before; and she suddenly realized how much she had missed him—missed _this_. She suddenly knew what it was that she had been waiting for all those dateless months.

"Look," he said uncomfortably, "don't make me say it again. I'm rubbish at apologizing."

She could not help but smile at that, and then he knew he had her.

"Will you keep the candle?" he asked, his lips stretched into a triumphant grin.

"I could use some light," she said slowly.

He beamed at her, and she felt her heartbeat quicken. "Merry Christmas," he whispered, before leaning in to kiss her once again.

* * *

**the end**

* * *

Reviews are always appreciated! =)


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